


Big Fuckoff Desk

by thecarlysutra



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra





	Big Fuckoff Desk

  
Angel has an office and a big fuck-off desk. Spike feels he, too, is entitled to these things. Not because he wants them—William the Bloody with a secretary, for God's sake—but because he's sure that whatever Angel has, he deserves one, as well.

Angel doesn't see things the same way, and he would like Spike off his desk. Off his desk, out of his office, out of his hemisphere.

He stabs at the intercom. "Harmony, please bring me a stake."

"Red meat's not good for you, boss."

Angel winces, in slow motion.

Spike swings his legs. "Sharp as a tack, that one."

Angel sighs. "Spike. Please. Just . . . go."

Spike does not go. What he does is scoot across Angel's desk, tearing Angel's papers and knocking over pens and knickknacks and shit. He scoots across Angel's desk until he's at the very edge, directly in front of the old man.

Angel doesn't move. He stares at the same spot on his desk, like his papers are still there and unmarred, like he's not all of a sudden staring at Spike's denim-clad crotch.

"All I want," he says, in a granite voice, dead and somber and so detached that Spike knows Angel is not speaking to him, but to the waiting air, like a character in a play soliloquizing to the audience. "Is a little peace and quiet, a little space to get things done. Is that so much to ask?"

Spike sighs. The old man can be such a fucking drama queen. It's really a drain on Spike's cool.

"I can think of some ways you can get me off your desk," Spike says. He would meet Angel's eyes, if the old fuck would ever stop the aside shit and look up.

Angel doesn't move. Spike entertains the notion of just unzipping his fly and letting Angel's unwavering gaze feast on Spike's namesake, but then Spike is overcome with a sudden wave of maturity. Instead, he rests his hand on the back of Angel's neck.

The old man relaxes the tiniest amount. And he looks up.  



End file.
